Ash asked out of pure curiosity, a naive question born from a mind struggling to reconcile the bizarre with the sensual.
But soon, a dawning, mortifying realization hit him.
‘He got excited from watching someone else come?’
Could that really happen?
The thought alone was a violation of everything Ash understood about intimacy, about privacy.
Tyllian avoided his gaze, the subtle shift in his eyes confirming Ash’s horrifying suspicion.
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken truths and a burgeoning sense of disbelief.
This was…
A pervert of a different kind than his Master, Ash mused, a chilling realization that solidified his growing despair.
While Ash was dumbfounded, grappling with this new revelation, his Master spoke, his voice cutting through the thick atmosphere of embarrassment.
“Ash likes it in his mouth too. Seems he learned well, whose disciple is he?”
He spoke proudly, a note of almost paternal satisfaction in his tone, as if it had nothing to do with him, as if Ash’s sudden oral pleasure was a testament to his own masterful tutelage.
“That’s…!”
Ash sputtered, trying to deny the implication, to salvage some shred of his reputation, but his Master’s words had already taken root.
“Is that so?”
Tyllian looked at Ash, his expression a curious blend of shock and a strange, almost innocent inquiry, as if asking if he’d actually sucked it.
‘He believes this?’
Ash’s mind screamed in protest.
“No?! That’s Master’s preference!”
He tried to correct the record, to shift the blame, to reclaim his own agency.
“Hmm? That’s true, but didn’t Ash like it too? You came just from me stepping on you.”
The Master’s counter-argument was delivered with devastating simplicity, utterly dismantling Ash’s frantic defense.
“No…!”
Ash could only whimper, his protests lost in the whirlwind of sensation and accusation.
How was he supposed to endure the stimulation from above and below?
The relentless probing of his backside, now coupled with the sudden, unsettling presence in his mouth, was a dual assault on his senses.
Moreover, Ash’s sensitivity was maximized, heightened to an almost unbearable degree due to his Master’s potent pheromones, which permeated the air, clouding his judgment and amplifying every nerve ending.
Ash learned then, in that moment of intense vulnerability, that when excitement reached its peak, when the boundaries of pleasure were pushed beyond their limits, even pain could be felt as pleasure, a terrifying and exhilarating paradox.
He made Ash like that, he twisted Ash’s very nature, and now he’s treating him like a weirdo?
The injustice of it all burned through the haze of his arousal.
But Tyllian, oblivious to Ash’s internal turmoil, asked, his expression a mixture of genuine shock and mild confusion, “Is that true?
“It’s, it’s true,” Ash admitted, the words escaping his lips in a choked whisper, “but if you say it like that, Tyll will misunderstand.”
He was trying to protect himself, to protect his already tattered image.
“Did you dislike it? I thought we enjoyed it together.”
The Master’s question, delivered with a hint of genuine hurt, threw Ash for another loop.
This time, his Master was shocked, a rare sight that might have been amusing under different circumstances.
Ash was utterly exasperated.
If he said he disliked it, if he denied the pleasure, would his Master revert to his impotent, chaste state?
Would he withdraw, leaving Ash craving the very sensations he was now protesting?
That would be… wasn’t that something a human shouldn’t do?
Wasn’t it cruel to deny someone that which they found pleasure in, even if that pleasure was twisted and unconventional?
“No, I liked, I liked it.”
The words were forced, a concession born of desperation and a strange, newfound dependency.
“See?”
His Master was instantly pleased, a smug satisfaction spreading across his face.
“Lord Ash’s preferences…?”
Tyllian muttered, his voice trailing off, his complex expression deepening.
Ash gave up.
He surrendered to the bizarre, to the inescapable reality of his situation.
His Master was pleased, radiating an almost childish glee, and Tyllian stared at Ash with a complex expression, a mixture of bewilderment, concern, and perhaps, a hint of his own burgeoning desire.
Ash didn’t even want to know what they were each thinking. He closed his eyes, a silent prayer escaping his lips: ‘Think whatever you want.’
He just wanted it to be over.
But Tyllian, who truly did think whatever he wanted, and who evidently interpreted Ash’s silent acquiescence as an invitation, acted on his own impulses.
He put his penis in Ash’s mouth, a sudden, deliberate act that shocked Ash anew.
As Ash stared blankly, his mind reeling from the unexpected intrusion, Tyllian held the shaft himself and moved it slightly, a tentative, exploratory motion.
“Uhm…?!”
Ash truly wondered what was happening, his internal monologue a chaotic jumble of questions and protests.
“Ah, yes. Ash was going to make an excuse for me, wasn’t he? Ash, I’m relieved that you’ll have a reliable escort.”
His Master spoke nonchalantly, as if this sudden oral encounter was a perfectly normal part of planning an escape, as if it were a casual remark about the weather.
Then he poked Ash’s backside again.
Squish, squish…
The relentless stimulation, from above and below, intensified.
‘I’m going to go crazy. I’m going to go crazy…’
The thought echoed in Ash’s mind, a desperate mantra.
Tyllian, who was letting Ash mouth his penis with a confused look, as if wondering, ‘Does he really like it?’, his eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and growing arousal, and his Master, who was casually caressing his backside, were all strange people.
More than that, Ash wondered, was Tyllian really okay with this?
‘Three people are rolling around in bed. He should say something.’
Shouldn’t words like ‘this is depraved’ or ‘this doesn’t feel right’ come out of his mouth?
Shouldn’t there be some protest, some moral objection from the steadfast knight?
Even Ash, despite his increasing arousal, was thinking, ‘No, this is a bit much. It’s not an orgy.’
He had a clear mental distinction.
Ash hadn’t even participated in such places, the ones he knew of, places where strange drugs circulated, and there were many unsavory characters.
Ash was a clever young master who knew how to look after himself, who knew how to navigate the dangerous currents of his world, but this… this was beyond his experience.
Amidst all this chaotic sensation and mental anguish, Ash caught sight of the sunset outside the window, a sliver of fiery orange bleeding into the deepening twilight.
A sudden, jarring thought pierced through the haze of pleasure.
‘Evening is coming.’
‘Huh? When did it get so late?’
The realization struck him with the force of a physical blow.
A servant would arrive soon for dinner, their routine unyielding, and they would notice Tyllian, who was supposed to be on guard duty, wasn’t there.
Then the escape plan, the carefully laid strategy they had just discussed, would be ruined, shattered by their collective indulgence.
Weren’t they just talking about the escape time, about the importance of secrecy and timing?
He wondered why these people made a plan but had no intention of executing it.
Ash wanted desperately to tell the two of them what time it was, to shake them from their shared reverie.
Wouldn’t they look outside?
Wouldn’t they notice the rapidly fading light?
Tyllian especially needed to leave.
He was the one person who absolutely couldn’t be caught in Ash’s room, in this compromising position.
However, the only sounds coming from Ash’s muffled mouth, trapped around the pulsating flesh, were desperate, guttural moans like “Uhm, oop,” unintelligible pleas for release.
Only Tyllian, stimulated by the fervent movement of Ash’s tongue, which had instinctively begun to work, let out a deep grunt, a sound of raw pleasure.
His member swelled further in Ash’s mouth, growing impossibly larger, a testament to Ash’s unwilling skill.
Ash wondered, with a strange detachment, how much bigger it was going to get.
How had he swallowed this before, in the past?
A flicker of self-satisfaction, a perverse pride, washed over Ash, to the point of being amazed at his own capacity.
To make matters worse, adding another layer to the overwhelming sensory overload, his Master was now licking his hole from behind, his tongue a warm, slick invasion.
Ash’s vision blurred, the room tilting, colours becoming indistinct.
His curled toes scratched at the bedsheet, a futile attempt to ground himself.
As his wrongly positioned teeth, accidentally, agonizingly, scraped what was in his mouth, the thick, hard thing pressed against Ash’s throat repeatedly, a rhythmic, insistent thrust.
It felt as if it would break through at any moment, forcing its way down his esophagus.
Despite the rising nausea, a strange, undeniable tightening began in his lower abdomen, a familiar clenching.
His re-energized member, responding to the overwhelming stimulation, rubbed itself against the soft bedsheet, a desperate search for friction and release.
A soft tongue delved into his hole, deep and invasive, and each time, Ash gritted his teeth, a silent scream building in his throat.
When Tyllian flinched in response to Ash’s involuntary movements, a strange pleasure circuit kicked in, a feedback loop of sensation and reaction, and Ash’s member satisfyingly nodded, twitching with its own burgeoning excitement.
This chain reaction didn’t stop, escalating beyond his control.
Ash’s mind went blank, consciousness slipping away in waves of pure sensation.
‘No, stop… Just…!’
He barely managed to form coherent thoughts, his body betraying his will.
“I… have to go…”
He gasped, the words barely audible, choked around the fullness in his mouth.
Ash, barely spitting out the penis, whimpered, a small, pathetic sound.
His Master, with a disconcerting tenderness, gently comforted him.
“Okay. I’ll let you go, Ash.”
‘Nooo… I have to escape!’
Ash wanted to cry, tears pricking at his eyes, frustrated by the misinterpretation, by the complete disregard for his urgent need.
However, his Master’s hand, quick and predatory like a snake, delved below and grabbed Ash’s penis, seizing it firmly.
As the cold hand gripped the hot, engorged tip, an intoxicating, almost painful pleasure surged through him, a jolt that went straight to his core.
Ash let out a scream-like moan, a sound of pure, unadulterated sensation that echoed in the room.
“You really like it…”
His Master purred, a low, satisfied murmur.
“I told you I did.”
Tyllian’s voice, equally pleased, responded from somewhere above him.
Ash couldn’t hear what the two of them were saying, their words lost in the roaring in his ears, drowned out by the crescendo of his own body’s response.
His Master kneaded Ash’s penis like a toy, manipulating it with practiced ease.
Ash felt like dough, pliant and yielding.
He was being thoroughly worked, rubbed everywhere, every sensitive nerve ending alight.
A fishy, pungent liquid flowed from the penis that had been filling his mouth, a sudden gush that spilled onto his tongue.
He could taste it, the metallic tang, the distinct, musky flavor of semen.
Normally, he would gag, his body rebelling against the intrusion, but his brain, steeped in pheromones, had twisted his senses, accepting it sweetly, transforming the repulsive into the desirable.
He wanted more, a desperate craving that made him instinctively lick, drawing the fluid deeper into his mouth.
Tyllian’s bewildered reaction, the faint flicker of surprise and growing pleasure on his face, was, against Ash’s will, utterly enjoyable.
That straitlaced Tyllian, the epitome of knightly decorum, was now thrusting his hips, unable to control his strength, his body obeying a primal urge.
Watching him engrossed in it, lost in his own pleasure, made Ash’s hole twitch again, tightening and relaxing, chewing on the tongue that continued to move in and out, teasing and provoking.
All the while, his body secreted fluid, an unconscious, desperate effort to accept an Alpha, to prepare for a deeper penetration.
Every organ in his body felt like a pleasure center, each nerve ending exquisitely sensitive.
Now, even the soft sheet brushing against his chest sent shivers through him, tickling him, a strange, amplified sensation.
His body was painfully hot, flushed and feverish, the heat radiating from his core.
The pleasure intensified, growing in an relentless surge.
A cold hand, surprisingly firm, stopped Ash, who was trembling, his body on the verge of collapse.
At the same time, Tyllian’s voice was heard, closer now, urgent.
“Lord Ash. Don’t go first, let’s go together…”
Feeling the sharp, almost violent taste of semen bursting in his mouth, a final, overwhelming wave, Ash climaxed again, a desperate, shuddering release.
His vision turned black, the world momentarily dissolving into an inky void.
This was the last coherent thought Ash had before oblivion claimed him: ‘No… You’re the one who needs to go first…’
So, what about the escape?
He wondered, as darkness swallowed him whole.
***
Rain fell.
Not a gentle drizzle, but a relentless deluge.
Water poured down as if a hole had been punched in the sky, an endless cascade that blurred the world outside the window.
Every time a blinding light flashed, momentarily illuminating the room in stark relief, and the delayed rumble of thunder shook the heavens and earth, vibrating through the very foundations of the castle, Ash flinched, his body recoiling involuntarily.
Even curled up tightly in bed, seeking the comfort of the blankets, he couldn’t escape the oppressive dread, the echoing fear that the storm brought.
Young Ash murmured, his face buried deep in a pillow, muffling his desperate whispers.
There’s nothing.
Don’t look up.
There’s nothing.
Nothing is clinging.
Mom’s not here.
No one is here.
Dad, Father, please save me… Ugh…!
His stomach suddenly turned over, a violent lurch that sent a wave of nausea through him.
He vomited the scant contents of his empty stomach, a bitter, acrid bile.
He retched continuously, throwing up until there was nothing left to come out, his body convulsing with the effort.
Every liquid that could come out of the holes in his face flowed out – tears, snot, and the lingering traces of vomit.
He crawled, weak and trembling, to the bathroom and washed his face, dirty with the residue of his distress.
Still, his body trembled uncontrollably, a deep, bone-deep tremor that spoke of fear and exhaustion.
The bathroom was too cold, the chill seeping into his very bones, and with the cold came a flood of memories, vivid and painful, memories of waiting for his father for a long, agonizing time.
‘I have to call Father.’
That was the only thought that mattered, the single, guiding beacon in his frightened mind.
‘Then Mom will be okay.’
He clung to that hope with a child’s unwavering belief.
Thinking that, Ash ran around the castle, a tiny figure lost in the vast, echoing corridors.
At that time, the castle was too vast for him, its scale overwhelming, and Ash was even younger than now, a mere child when his mother passed away.
The corridor was so long and wide that no matter how much he called, his voice a desperate, reedy cry, his father didn’t come out.
Only unhelpful servants, their faces unreadable, blocked Ash, their well-meaning but ultimately futile attempts to comfort him pushing him further into despair.
Ash pushed them away, his small hands surprisingly strong in his desperation.
He kept crying, hot tears streaming down his face, a raw, inconsolable grief.
He called for his father, again and again, his voice cracking.
Because his father loved him.
He would come.
Then he would take his father’s hand and naturally go to his mother’s room.
His father would follow reluctantly, perhaps with a sigh, but he would follow.
Then his mother would be okay.
Nothing would have happened, none of this nightmare.
His mother loved his father, so everything would be fine, she would be well.
His father didn’t come out to embrace Ash, to offer comfort or solace.
Ash got lost in the corridor, a winding labyrinth of fear and loneliness.
When was that?
The line between reality and past were indistinguishable, blurring into a terrifying, continuous loop.
Young Ash wandered the corridor, a ghost in his own home.
He cried, calling for his father, his voice growing hoarse.
The servants who passed him, accustomed to the castle’s strange rhythms, knew about Ash’s sleepwalking, a habit that had begun after the Duchess died, a silent manifestation of his grief.
So, they also knew not to touch him, not to interfere with his nocturnal wanderings.
Ash had been ill since the Duchess died, a lingering sadness that manifested in these unsettling episodes.
Only one person in the castle didn’t know about it, or perhaps chose to ignore it.
Owen Mills opened the door, his figure framed in the dim light of the corridor.
“What kind of crazy thing are you doing?”
His voice was rough, edged with irritation.
Ash saw his black hair, startlingly dark against his pale face.
His black eyes, usually cold, were now grimaced with displeasure, a familiar look.
It’s Dad.
Ash thought so, his child’s mind latching onto the familiar features, distorting reality.
Dad, Dad, Mom, to Mom, come with me.
Huh?
Please.
Dad.
Ash clung to him, his small arms wrapping around Owen’s leg.
Owen Mills couldn’t push away the child who clung to him with all his might, the desperate grip a physical barrier.
Ash continuously rubbed his cheek against Owen’s neck, seeking comfort, warmth, a familiar scent.
He wrapped his arms around Owen’s neck and hugged him as if he would never let go, a silent plea for connection.
Owen Mills glared at the ceiling, his jaw clenched, and sighed briefly, a sound of profound exasperation.
“Who’s your goddamn dad?”
He murmured, the words barely audible, a harsh whisper.
The door closed with a soft click, plunging the corridor back into darkness.
No one was left in the corridor, only the lingering silence and the fading echoes of a child’s desperate cries.